


Snow (the sequel)

by kronette



Series: Weather [3]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a slash sequel to the gen story "Snow."  <i>The weather in New York City for the past few weeks had been cold but precipitation-free.  Napoleon sensed his partner needed a change of scenery.  That wistful look was back in his eyes, though he remained stoic and stubbornly refused to admit what was wrong.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow (the sequel)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 1999 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright - I'd forgotten this was on File40 (http://file40.net/file40s.html).

The weather in New York City for the past few weeks had been cold but precipitation-free. Napoleon sensed his partner needed a change of scenery. That wistful look was back in his eyes, though he remained stoic and stubbornly refused to admit what was wrong. Instead of barking at everyone, this time Illya shut down, barely speaking to anyone. 

So, two days before Christmas, Napoleon bundled Illya up and they drove to the same little motel they had stayed at a few weeks ago. Snow had started an hour before they arrived, and already Napoleon could sense the change in his partner. They checked in and grabbed a bite to eat before settling in for the night. Napoleon buried himself under the covers and stared at his partner's back. Illya stood at the window, watching the snow fall. He reminded Napoleon of a schoolboy watching the other kids playing outside. He was still standing when Napoleon drifted to sleep. 

Sometime during the night, Napoleon stirred and blinked his eyes. It was still dark outside, but enough light shown through the window that he could make out the image of Illya asleep in a chair he had pulled to the window. Chuckling to himself and feeling sympathy pains in his shoulders, he pulled Illya to his feet and put him to bed. He fell into his own bed and went back to sleep. 

In the morning, he awoke to find Illya sitting at the window again. "Don't you get tired of looking at it?" he grumbled. 

"No," Illya replied simply. 

Napoleon stretched and joined his partner at the window. "The forecast didn't say anything about _this_ ," he groused as he stared at the accumulating snow. Two to four inches had been predicted, but since last night, the snow hadn't let up. Now they were staring at a good eight inches and it was still coming down. "I don't see how we can get back to the city today." 

"Is that such a bad thing?" the normally practical Illya asked wistfully. 

"Well, I do have a pile of paperwork waiting for me," he answered hesitantly. "And I did have some last-minute Christmas shopping to do." 

"You did not finish your shopping early?" Illya asked absently, as he was absorbed in watching the falling snow. 

Napoleon shrugged, though Illya couldn't see it. "I couldn't find something special. I want it to be just the right thing, but this person is hard to buy for." 

"It wouldn't be Angelique, would it?" his partner asked with just a hint of disdain in his voice. 

"No, it would be you," he admitted. 

Illya turned away from the window and studied him carefully. "Me? I asked for nothing." 

"You shouldn't _ask_ for a present. That defeats the purpose." He shrugged again. "I _want_ to give you something." 

"But, why?" he asked as he turned back to the window. "It seems a waste of money." 

"Because you're my friend, and I like to let my friends know what they mean to me," Napoleon answered quietly. 

"Napoleon, I know what I mean to you," Illya intoned patiently. 

Silence descended between the two friends. 

"You do?" Napoleon's voice was soft with surprise. 

"Of course," Illya stated simply and offered nothing more. 

"Would you mind telling me?" he asked with just the tiniest hint of insecurity in his tone. "In case I have it wrong?" 

Illya turned slightly toward him and smiled indulgently. "I am the only one you can trade insults with and not get punched in the nose. I lend you money and don't ask for it back. I put up with your flirtations. I overlook all your annoying little habits. I am the one you count on to rescue you from Thrush. I'm the one who cares for the injuries you don't let the doctors know about. There are days when I am the only one you trust. I am your partner in the truest sense of the word." He paused and made eye contact. "Am I close?" 

Napoleon didn't answer. He couldn't hold Illya's gaze, either. Close was not a strong enough word. 'Dead on' was more appropriate. Did Illya really know him that well? Was he that transparent? His natural self-confidence kicked in, reminding him that this was _Illya_ , his partner, who was _supposed_ to know him, just like he knew Illya. He cleared his throat and asked, "So what sort of present is appropriate for such a person? He likes things simple, neat and orderly, though puzzles fascinate him. He likes challenges. He doesn't suffer fools quietly. He's blunt, occasionally rude and insulting. No one would put up with that behavior but me, because I see it for what it really is. He's afraid of showing any true emotion. He's so in control that he forgets to be human sometimes. He likes to keep people at a distance, but he allows me to see that side of him because he trusts me." He finally raised his eyes to meet Illya's. "In short, he's one of the best friends I've ever had." 

The two friends stared at one another. Napoleon was surprised to see a softening of Illya's usually icy glare. He hoped - no, knew - that his stoic partner was moved by what he was saying. He continued, "You see my dilemma. If I go too practical, the meaning is lost. But it can't be sentimental, because I don't think he'd want that. So what do I do?" 

Illya dropped his gaze, lost in thought. He was quiet for several minutes, then began in a sotto voice, "It's true that material wealth doesn't interest him. He has no use for trinkets; they clutter his house and his life." He paused and his voice cracked slightly. "I believe you have given this person the best gift already. You have given your friendship." 

Napoleon blinked in confusion. "But...that's not a gift. It's not special." 

Illya smiled sadly as he shook his head. "Oh, Napoleon. Friendships _are_ special. Each one is unique. They are built over time, nurtured with care, change and grow. Do you think presents are only given once a year? Do you think they have to be tangible? Did you never receive a hug as thanks? A pat on the shoulder as congratulations? Aren't words enough?" 

Napoleon stared at the floor and muttered, "I never thought about it like that. I guess I'm afraid the words will be forgotten over time." 

"Words have more of an impact that you think, my friend." 

He got the very strong feeling that Illya wanted something from him, but didn't know what. He stared down at the wistful schoolboy, sudden comprehension bringing a smile to Napoleon's face. He pulled Illya to him and hugged his partner tight. "And sometimes words need a little backing up?" he murmured. The bone-crushing grip around him threatened to crack several ribs. "Ease up a bit, will you? I can't breathe." 

"Sorry," Illya muttered sheepishly. He loosened his grip and took a step back. 

"Merry Christmas?" Napoleon offered. 

"Hristos Razdajetsja," Illya replied with a smile. "I'm starving. Hurry up and get dressed so we can eat." 

Napoleon laughed but complied. In a little less than an hour, they were in the main cabin enjoying a good old fashioned breakfast of wheatcakes, honey-cured ham, toast, orange juice and coffee. 

"So, since we're stuck up here, what did you want to do?" Napoleon asked as he sipped his coffee.

"You'll think me foolish," Illya growled. 

"I highly doubt it," he assured his partner. Illya muttered something that Napoleon barely heard. "Did you say snow people?" 

"Yes," Illya snapped as a blush highlighted his already reddened cheeks. "Haven't you ever made snow people?" 

"You mean a snowman? Sure. The snow's plenty sticky. Should be able to make a good sized one." 

"No, not a snowman," Illya sighed impatiently. "I guess I'll have to show you. Are you about done?" 

Napoleon finished his coffee. "Yes." He charged the bill to their room, stood and pulled on his coat and gloves. "Let's go see about these snow people." 

Illya shot him a disgusted glare, but lead the way out into a clearing behind the cabins. He suddenly flung his arms out and dropped face first into the deep snow. Napoleon called to him and tried to hurry to help him up, but Illya's head popped up before he got close to his partner. Illya carefully stood up and backed away, then proudly declared, "Snow people." 

Napoleon stepped over to Illya and peered down. Imprinted in the snow was a replica of his partner. "A snow angel! But you forgot to move your arms," he laughed. 

"That isn't a snow angel," Illya declared huffily. "And I'd like to see you try it." 

With a muffled curse, Napoleon went sprawling head-first into the snow, thanks to a shove from Illya. Spluttering, he got to his knees and wiped the snow from his eyes. He blinked and studied the imprint of himself in the snow. "This looks like a bear," he argued. 

"It's perfect," Illya called from somewhere behind him. 

Napoleon got to his feet just in time to see Illya fall face-down again. His partner stood up and shook the snow from his hair. "Are you going to just stand there?" Illya called. He turned and flopped down once again. 

Shrugging, Napoleon flung himself backwards and raked his arms through the snow to make the wings. He got up and admired his handiwork. 

"What did you do? It looks funny," his partner criticized. 

"It's a snow angel. You move your arms to make the wings." 

"It looks like a huge airplane," Illya deadpanned. 

"Hey!" Napoleon leaned down and flung snow at his partner. Illya retaliated, and soon a full scale snowball fight ensued. Both men dived for cover, rolled balls for ammunition, and fired with careful precision. Their training came to good use as they lobbed balls and ducked under enemy fire. Things started to slow down and Napoleon lifted his head -- to be promptly smacked in the face with a snowball. "Ouch!" He rubbed his sore nose. 

"Napoleon, are you all right?" Illya's concerned voice called to him. 

"I thing that brode my dose," he called back, his voice muffled by his gloves. He had three snowballs left, and he intended to get the last laugh. 

Illya came over and just as he was within firing range, Napoleon let loose. Illya yelped as all three found their target. Napoleon fell over helplessly, laughing. His laugh turned to a screech as Illya stuffed snow under his coat. The Russian continued to assault Napoleon, trying to shove his face into the snow. They wrestled back and forth, neither gaining the upper hand for long. Soon they were breathless and out of fight. Most of the snow had been tramped down by their roughhousing. 

Illya regained his breath first and rose to his feet. He started to shake the snow out of his clothes. 

Napoleon rolled over to make some remark, but found himself transfixed by the sight of his partner covered in snow. "Don't," he whispered. 

"What?" Illya asked as he brushed off his arms. 

Napoleon stood up and halted Illya's hands. "Don't," he repeated as he smiled. "You look like one of your snow people." 

Illya frowned and tried to pull away, but Napoleon held firm. "You're mocking me again." 

He shook his head. "No, I'm serious. You look. . ." A thousand words popped into his head, but none of them made it past his brain. He had always been a man of action, so he took a breath, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to Illya's. 

At first there was no response, but he feared to pull back too soon. He opened his mouth slightly and licked at Illya's lips, feeling a tremor run through the Russian. Startled, he felt Illya's lips open and a hesitant tongue flicked against his. Then he drew back, and Napoleon took a step away from him. 

"I'm sorry, Illya. I don't know . . ."

"Why?" his partner asked softly. 

"Why," Napoleon repeated. He shrugged and answered truthfully, "I like you. I think I might even love you, but . . ." 

Illya stepped forward and placed a gloved hand against his mouth. "Not here," he murmured. "Let's go back to the cabin." 

Feeling like a man going to his execution, Napoleon followed his partner back to their cabin. He turned and locked the door, then took his time removing his coat and accessories. He brushed at the snow still in his hair until he realized he was stalling. Steeling himself, he turned to look at his partner. 

Illya was sitting on the edge of the bed, snow still melting in his hair, studying him intently. That gaze unnerved him. His eyes strayed around the room, noting Illya’s coat lay across the chair, the melting snow dripping onto the floor. 

"You like me." It was a statement of fact, nothing more. 

"Yes," Napoleon answered, his tone belying his nervousness. He had always been so sure of everything. Now he was sure of nothing. 

"And you think you might love me." 

"I should have been more specific," he clarified as he moved to sit next to Illya. He wasn't aware he had been holding his breath until Illya didn't shift away or get up completely. He let the breath out slowly and felt steadier to answer, "I already love you. It was a natural extension of the liking. What I should have said was, I'm not quite sure if I'm _in_ love with you." 

That intense gaze never left his face and Napoleon felt heat flush his body. 

"What would make you sure?" Illya asked, but the coolness of his tone cracked on the words. 

So, he was nervous, too. That settled Napoleon's nerves just enough. He asked shyly, "Well, another kiss might do it." 

The soft, gentle glide of Illya's tongue against his lips surprised him. He had no recollection of either of them moving, but his arms were around Illya, and Illya's hands were tangled in his hair. He didn't know when he had lost control of the situation, but he didn't care. He poured everything he was into the press of his lips; the stroke of his tongue; the pressure of his arms; the catch to his breath; the beat of his heart against Illya's. It was like he was connecting with a part of himself that he hadn't realized was lost. A kindred spirit. His partner. 

His partner. 

With a soft groan, he pulled back and breathlessly asked, "Is this what you want, Illya?" 

The Russian rested his forehead against Napoleon's as he licked his swollen lips. "Do you love me? Are you in love with me?" Illya countered. 

He took a deep breath. "Yes," he admitted softly as he rubbed Illya's back. "Yes." 

"Then, yes," his partner answered quietly. "I want this. I want you. All of you." 

Their lips met again, but this time, the kiss carried the force of their love behind it. Napoleon was shattered and rebuilt into a new person during that kiss, and he had a feeling Illya had been, too. 

This time when they parted, Illya had a question. "Can we go . . . slow, Napoleon?" His eyes strayed to the bed they both sat on, and Napoleon felt rather than saw the slight ripple of apprehension that went through his partner. 

He rubbed his hands soothingly over the slightly trembling frame. "Whatever you want, Illya. I don't ever want to hurt you or rush you. I love you." 

A blinding smile accompanied the softly spoken, "I love you." Illya suddenly slipped out of his arms and stood up. "Come on, Napoleon. Let's take a walk in the woods." 

"A walk. Now." Sometimes, Napoleon truly wondered at his partner. 

"Yes, now," Illya declared impatiently. He pulled on his coat and retrieved Napoleon's from the coat rack. "It is not like we aren’t already wet. I, for one, cannot get any wetter. Come on, while it's still light." 

Napoleon obediently stood and put on his coat. "May I ask why it's necessary to go out right _now_?" he said good-naturedly. 

Illya turned and smiled at him, and Napoleon felt his jaw drop open. It was a wicked smile full of promises. "I want to make more snow people," the Russian explained. He kissed Napoleon lightly. "Maybe we can come up with a new design or two." 

"Why, Illya, I don't believe I've seen this side of you before," Napoleon declared with a grin. 

"There is a lot more to me than you thought, Napoleon Solo," Illya promised as he winked on his way out the door. 

He was just beginning to realize that. And he was going to have fun finding out. He locked the door behind him and went to join his partner in the woods.

The Beginning.


End file.
